The John Watson Seesaw of Eyewitness Evidence
by PoisoningPigeonsinthePark
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Without Sherlock, will John ever be able to explain the simple concept of not seeing what you saw, you see? Err... Maybe it's not that simple after all.


**A/N: Hi :) Thanks for reading this! I've been dawdling with my fanfic writing and I'm sorry to anyone who happens to be reading this and is waiting for any Merlin stories to be continued. Hope you like it! It's my first Sherlock fic!**

DI Greg Lestrade had popped over to 221B Baker Street, just to see how Dr Watson was coping. This had become his habit of a Wednesday afternoon, and he wasn't about to break it for anybody.

"How is he?" he asked Mrs Hudson, who answered the door to him and offered him a cup of tea.

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes. "He's interviewing again."

"Again?"

She gestured to him to be quiet, and they tiptoed up the stairs to peek through the gap in the door to the flat, which had been left open by somebody at some point. Neither of them could see anybody.

"Are you sure he's in there?" asked Lestrade, peering uncertainly at the bit of room he could see.

Mrs Hudson, who took her newfound role as guardian of John very seriously, was not impressed. "Yes," she was midway through whispering - because she was worried about being found snooping - when John Watson yelled:

"Now… what's changed?"

They both jumped back in surprise at the sudden noise, and Mrs Hudson banged her elbow.

A voice neither of them recognised, which was uncertain, squeaky and sounded pre-pubescent, answered him. "I don't know!"

"Look! What do you _see_?"

"You haven't moved anything, have you? It's a trick question, right?" asked the squeaky voice, so nasal it sounded like a talking mouse with a cold.

"No! I mean, yes! I have moved something. What is it?"

There was the sound of John's cane swiping vehemently through the air.

"I don't know!" insisted the owner of the voice.

"That person doesn't sound old enough to be interviewed…" Greg muttered questioningly to Mrs Hudson.

"Yes, well, he's getting desperate. I keep telling him that there's no point, but he still insists," she sighed and rubbed her elbow, which hurt. She had knocked it on just the wrong spot.

"He'll never find another Sherlock," Lestrade told her.

Mrs Hudson shook her head. "I don't think that's what he's looking for… He's not bad at solving cases, you know. He picked a lot up from Sherlock... It's just a lot of work for one person."

Lestrade looked as though he was thinking about something.

"Think! You will need to be able to survey a crime scene quickly! You are an eyewitness to the murder of this tablecloth, and I have changed a crucial piece of evidence! Are you seeing?" asked John, who sounded about ready to explode. "Think about what you _saw_, and what you can _see_. Are you really _seeing_ what's in front of you?"

"He's been staying up very late at night on that computer of his," Mrs Hudson continued, although Lestrade did not appear to be hearing her, he was focused on the conversation going on in the other room. "He seems to be getting more like Sherlock every day! Although it's probably just the stress."

"Yes!" wailed the child. "Of course I'm seeing! My eyes are open!"

"But," she considered, as Lestrade pressed his ear up against the gap. "You know, the other day I found a toe in the fridge. I asked John, and he said he put it there. It ended up in the yoghurt."

John's cane hit the floor threateningly. "You haven't seen what you thought you saw, you see? You think you can see, but you can't see! You're not seeing! You're… Oh! Drat! What was it Sherlock used to say? You saw but you didn't see? No. That's not it. You see but you didn't saw? That doesn't even make any sense…"

"I think he needs some time off," Mrs Hudson decided, but Lestrade had gone. She shrugged and muttered, "Suit yourself," before going to go and make them all a much-deserved cup of tea.

"You do see, you just don't observe!" yelled Lestrade, storming through the door.

"Oh, hi Greg," mumbled John, with his head in his hand. "I was wondering when you and Mrs Hudson were going to come out from behind that door."

Lestrade shook his head in disbelief. "Amazing! You are turning into him!"

The confused, frightened child with the squeaky voice took this opportunity of escaping through the open door.

"Into who?" asked John.

"Sherlock!"

John shook his head. "No. I just heard you two whispering outside the door. And it's a Wednesday, Greg. You always visit on Wednesdays."

Lestrade felt a little silly. Then he remembered the toe. He jumped over to the fridge and retrieved the yoghurt pot, completed with protruding toe. "Explain this!" he demanded.

John shrugged uncomfortably. "Alright… fine. I miss Sherlock. So sometimes I put toes in the fridge. It's not illegal!"

Lestrade felt it best not to quibble over small technicalities such as whether it was or was not illegal to have a dead stranger's toe in your yoghurt.

"Wait…" muttered John, moving his hand from over his eyes. "What did you say?"

"Um… 'Explain this'."

John shook his head. "No. Before that."

"'Sherlock!'?"

"No, no, no. When you first came in?"

"Oh… You do see, you just don't observe!" repeated Lestrade.

John grinned at him. "DI Lestrade?"

Greg was already suspicious. "Yes?"

"Just how satisfied are you with your current occupation?"

Lestrade, who had actually come barging into the room with this in mind in the first place, caught on. He was grinning back. "Not very."

"Is that so?"

Lestrade nodded. "Did you know that Detective Inspectors' yoghurts never come with complimentary toes?"

John was suitably horrified. "Greg, I think that you might just have to become a Private Investigator."

Lestrade pretended to consider this. "Hmm… Sorry Dr Watson, that's not my division."

Just as John was beginning to feel disappointed - he'd thought he was on the same wavelength as someone for once - Lestrade winked. Then Mrs Hudson bustled back upstairs with the tea, and the second greatest crime-fighting, tea-drinking duo to live in 221B Baker Street was born.


End file.
